


Just The Ghost Of Nothing

by WhenIShipIShipHard



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - High School, Ghost!Pete, High School, M/M, ghost - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 14:58:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5252519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenIShipIShipHard/pseuds/WhenIShipIShipHard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ghost!Pete </p>
<p>His feet continued to take him to some unknown destination. He didn't really care where he was going. Unfortunately, the words in his head did not disappear with physical pain. His hand itched for a pen and paper to write them down and clear his mind. </p>
<p>[•]<br/>Pete is killed in an accident and is drawn to the room of a adorable boy as an invisible ghost. </p>
<p>(better than it sounds I swear)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just The Ghost Of Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this isn't too confusing.

Pete sighed as he walked home from school. It had been a shitty day for no particular reason, and brain was full of jumbled words. He just wanted to go home and write them down and try to nap for an hour or two. The sun shone on his back and he grumbled internally. Sun. He hated the sun.

Pete crossed the street, the last one before he reached home. The red hand on the stoplight pole was blinking: 9, 8, 7... Pete rolled his eyes; for some reason it was pissing him off today.

He wasn't entirely sure what happened next, it was all a blur. Suddenly, there was a screech of tires and some profound swearing, and then he was flying in the air, and everything went black before he could thud to the ground.

[•]

Patrick sat alone in his room, strumming his guitar. He was good with melodies and riffs and random tunes, but without words to string them together, his random talent was useless. Scowling, he jotted down another string of notes on a notepad. Lyrics didn't come easily to him. But music, music was natural.

[•]

There was a lot of beeping. And yelling. Pete groaned and rolled over. Intense noise like this usually left him with an unbearable headache which could only be tamed with sleep, which was something that only came with sleeping pills. But this time, his head felt fine and, in fact, his entire body was fine. He sat up. He was sitting a few feet off the road, and no one was paying attention to him. An ambulance and several police cars were crammed into one spot, as well as a navy blue Camry. This section of the road was taped off. As he watched, a group of nurses lifted a stretcher with a bodybag. With a jolt, he recognized his own long black hair before they zipped it up to cover his face.

He jumped off the ground and raced over to the scene. No one stopped him, no one seemed to even notice him. His stomach twisted when he saw his parents standing near the bag; his dad's face carved out of stone, and his mom sobbing into his shirt.

"Excuse me!" he yelled. "Hello? Can someone explain what's going on?" He ran over to his parents. "Mom! Dad!" They didn't look up. He reached up to tug on his mom's sleeve, bus gasped in surprise as his hand went _through_ her...

[•]

Patrick had given up on finding lyrics to his melodies, and had started his history homework. Not that he was really working on it, his mind was wandering. He thought about how he wished he could start a band, and how he didn't know enough people to do that. He thought about the bullies at school and felt bad for the shit they were going through at home that made them feel the need to prove their dominance by shoving him into lockers. Mostly, he thought about _him_ , the most beautiful boy he'd ever laid eyes on, none other than Pete Wentz, a senior from school, two years older than Patrick. Patrick sighed. He was pathetic.

[•]

Pete took a moment to get over the shock that his hand passed through his mother, and the shock that he could still cry even if he felt no physical pain. Once he did, he sat in the middle of the road, scrubbing tears away and rocking back and forth, arms around his knees. Not a single car passed by. Slowly, the sun set, and when it was dark, Pete started to think. His mind always functioned better at night.

He was dead. That part was clear. He was hit by some idiot in the navy blue Camry, and woke up as... a ghost?

Pete was never religious, and never really though about the afterlife. He always figured you just disappeared. You were just gone. It always hurt his head when he thought about it too much.

With a sigh, Pete flopped onto the ground. He wasn't cold, even though the night air was chilly. He wasn't tired either. He should've been exhausted, sleeping problems or not, but the only thing that was weary was his mind. After a while, he noticed that his heart was beating twice as slow. He wasn't accustomed to it, and it felt strange.

A few hours passed, and he eventually felt really pathetic just laying in the middle of the street, so he decided to wander a bit. He started to walk, no destination in mind, but his feet seemed to know where they were going. He passed many people as he wandered up and down the streets, but not a single one looked at him. _Is this it? Is this the afterlife? An eternity of wandering around, not able to interact with anyone ever again?_ He inhaled shakily. He wasn't prepared for that level of loneliness.

His feet continued to take him to some unknown destination. He didn't really care where he was going. Unfortunately, the words in his head did not disappear with physical pain. His hand itched for a pen and paper to write them down and clear his mind.

After about an hour of seemingly random wandering, Pete found himself in front of a two story house. It was painted white, and had a cute little flower garden in the front yard. He reached for one of the flowers, and to his surprise, was able to touch it and feel the smooth petals. So he could touch inanimate objects, just not people.

Something in his brain told him to go into the house. He hesitated, and figured it wasn't technically breaking and entering if he was dead, and besides, no one could see him anyways.

Getting inside the house wasn't a problem. Pete experimentally put his hand on the wall, and was able to pass through. He didn't stop to think about why he was able to touch the flower petals, but not the the wall. He stepped through, and after a second of darkness, he was inside the house.

It was too dark to really see any details, but he knew immediately that it was a well-kept homely place. He wandered upstairs, peeking into all the rooms and listening to the breathing of the people living there. Photos of the inhabitants decorated the walls, but he didn't stop to look; something urged him to keep walking. Finally, he paused in the last room, farthest from the staircase. Light breathing filled the room, and Pete could see a Metallica poster hanging crookedly on the wall. He stepped into the room and saw a boy wrapped up in blankets in the bed. A warm feeling spread inside Pete's chest, causing him to gasp in surprise. With a murmur, the boy rolled over a little, exposing his face.

He had a sweet, round face, and light strawberry blond hair was mussed from sleep. He looked strangely familiar.

Pete stared at him, searching his mind. Where had he seen this kid before? Suddenly he remembered; he him saw every day in between his classes. The kid was from school. He saw this kid around school all the time.

Pete smiled faintly, pleased that he remembered. He looked around the room. It was fairly neat, a cluttered desk was shoved in the corner of the room, and a guitar leaned against the wall. He sat in the swivel chair behind the desk and looked for a pen. Locating one, Pete grabbed a piece of paper and starting writing down random lines, calm filling him as he emptied his head.

_What good comes of something when I'm just the ghost of nothing?_

After a few minutes, he sat at the desk, swinging the chair a little and fiddling with the pen, thinking to himself. The pen flew from his hand and bounced onto the desk, making a loud clatter.

Pete froze as he heard the boy shift in his bed, and after a second, gasp out loud.

[•]

Patrick was dreaming of grey clouds and stage fright and elephants and Pete. The dream didn't make much sense, but it wasn't a bad one. A clatter cut through the confusion, too loud to be part of his dream itself. The fantasy world dissipated. He turned around in his bed, shifting uncomfortably, before opening his eyes, irritated. He sat up, looking around the room, attempting to find what woke him.

Patrick's heart leapt in his throat when he saw the figure in the chair. He gasped, and his heart started pounding. _This is it, I'm gonna die oh god_ , he thought.

The man turned around. Patrick almost passed out right then and there. It was Pete. Pete fucking Wentz.

"I'm fucking dreaming," he whispered, voice surprisingly strong for how weak he felt.

[•]

Pete just stared. For once, he was at a loss for words. The boy regained his composure first.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he hissed, trying to sound menacing. Pete could hear the fear in his voice.

Pete didn't speak for a second, still trying to find words. Finally, his brain seemed to connect to his mouth. "You can see me?" he asked, almost inaudibly.

The boy stood up, swinging his legs off the bed, ready to bolt out of the room. "What the fuck? Of course I can see you?"

Pete flew out of his chair and wrapped his arms around the boy's short frame, giggling manically. The boy froze.

Realizing how scared he must be to find a strange guy in his bedroom in the middle of the night, Pete quickly detached himself from the boy and sat back on the chair.

"Ok, before you call the cops or something, please let me explain," Pete said, pleading a little.

The boy slowly nodded, and sat on the edge of his bed, cheeks flushed.

"Thank you so much. I know this is really weird but I didn't think you'd be able to see me and I don't know what led me here and -" Pete stopped, seeing the confusion on the boy's face. He took a deep breath. "My name's Pete, I go to the same school as you."

"I know," the boy said quickly, blushing when he realized he had spoken aloud. Pete smiled a little. He realized that the boy was actually really adorable.

"So basically, earlier today I died."

[•]

Patrick's heart had not stopped pounding, he was surprised Pete couldn't hear it. Part of him was listening intently to Pete's story, and part of him was freaking out over the fact that  _Pete fucking Wentz_ was sitting in his room. Patrick didn't have any classes with him, but would see him all the time around the school, and had developed a major crush on him. He couldn't call it love, because in all honestly he didn't know the guy, but it was as close to love as you could get when it came to a hot senior from school.

"I don't know why I ended up here, but you're the only one who can touch and see me," Pete finished, shrugging. "Sorry for waking you. I thought I was being quiet."

Patrick didn't know what to say. Several questions flitted through his mind, and before he could think, he blurted out "Prove it." He felt his face heat up after saying it, but Pete just laughed a little and stuck his hand into the wall. Patrick's eyes bugged a little when he saw it pass through.

"Alright..." Patrick said slowly, not fully grasping what was going on. "Do you even know who I am?"

Pete looked a little guilty. "Can't say that I do," he sighed.

Patrick swallowed. Pete's words were like a punch to the gut. "Patrick," he said, almost inaudibly. "Patrick Stump."

[•]

"I've seen you around," Pete said, feeling awful. Patrick just nodded, not meeting his eye.

"Do you happen to know what time it is?" Patrick asked, flopping back onto his bed.

Pete checked his watch. "3:17."

"I have to be up in three hours and there is no way I'm gonna sleep with you in the room," Patrick groaned.

"I can go," Pete offered, even though he really didn't want to.

"No," the boy sighed. "Probably won't be able to sleep either way."

"Sorry, again. I'm a careless fuck."

Patrick ignored this. "What were you writing?" he asked, turning his head to face Pete.

"Words," Pete said, handing the piece of paper to the other boy. He grabbed it curiously, mouthing the words as he read.

Patrick looked up. "This is pure genius!" he exclaimed. A spark lit in his eyes. "You write music?"

"I guess you could put it that way. It's just an outlet for the mess in my head."

"Do you have more?"

Pete hesitated. He had more, but they were everywhere; in his school notes, crumpled napkins, gum wrappers, anywhere really. "Yeah I do."

Patrick looked like he were about to implode from excitement. "Can you get them somehow? I don't care how many. Just more."

Pete decided it was the least he could do, after breaking into his house and scaring the shit out of him. Even if it meant breaking into his own house for the first time since he died.

"Yeah sure. I'll be back."

Patrick beamed.

[•]

Patrick couldn't believe it. It all seemed like an impossible dream. After Pete left his room through the wall, Patrick had to pinch himself several times to make sure he was awake. Even then, he wasn't sure. It all seemed so surreal. Pete was dead, Pete was a ghost, Pete could only see him, Pete could only touch him, Pete could fucking write music. It didn't seem real. Things like this didn't happen to him, the small, fat, annoying music geek who got bullied every day. Honestly, it didn't happen to anyone. He didn't even know ghosts actually exist. It was all too much.

Mind still occupied, Patrick got out his guitar and experimentally strummed. His parents were deep sleepers and nothing usually woke them up, he hoped that quiet singing and playing wouldn't be an exception.

Pete came back quickly, looking a little shaken, and holding a stack of papers and scraps in his hand.

"Are you ok?" Patrick asked, worried.

"Yeah- no," Pete muttered. "It just hit me I'll never be able to talk to my parents or sleep in my room or pet my cat or see my friends or go to a party or -" He broke off, a shudder going through him.

"Hey," Patrick said, putting his guitar aside and walking over to him. He wrapped his arms around the taller boy, and Pete leaned into his touch gratefully, clinging onto him. Patrick flushed a little, because how long had he been waiting for this? To finally touch and hug Pete, he had been waiting too long. 

He was surprised to feel wet tears soak his shirt. Pete shuddered with sobs. He stroked his hair with one hand, whispering soothing words to him.

"I didn't want to die Patrick," Pete moaned against his shoulder. "Why me? I was happy, somewhat. I was better than before, at least. I had great friends, I was good in school, I had been accepted into some college, my parents were finally proud of me, I was working my way out of depression, and it was getting better, I was getting better. And then it all ended. I didn't want this to happen, I was supposed to be successful and make my parents proud. And then..."

Patrick closed his eyes and sqeezed tighter. He felt awful for Pete, out of all the people in the world, he didn't deserve to be stuck on earth with no one but a boy he didn't even know.

He held the older boy for what seemed like years, the two of them rocking slowly. Patrick was very aware of the way his body fit against Pete's, and the way his heartbeat was unusually slow; twice as slow as a normal heartbeat, and probably three times as slow as his own racing heart. Finally, Pete had stopped crying.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. Then he laughed. "This is so pathetic. I'm in some random kid's house crying into his shoulder because I'm fucking dead. You don't even know me."

Patrick didn't say anything, he just gave Pete one last squeeze before stepping away.

"I'm sorry this is happening to you. Don't feel bad, I'd be a mess too."

Pete just nodded, but Patrick could see that he was grateful.

"So why did you need my words?" Pete asked, gesturing to the pile of papers on Patrick's bed.

Patrick grinned. "Right."

[•]

Pete sat in the swivel chair as Patrick shifted through the pile of his words. He felt bad for invading Patrick's house and interrupting his sleep, but sitting in his presence was strangely comforting. He watched the younger boy sort the papers into little piles, mouthing to himself. Pete couldn't help but smile. He was adorable.

After about twenty minutes, Patrick looked up.

"Ok. Sorry that took so long."

"It didn't, don't worry," Pete said, giving him a smile.

Patrick took a deep breath and gave Pete a hesitant smile. "I've never done this before," he admitted.

"No judgement here."

Patrick nodded and took another shaky breath, before he started to strum his guitar and sing quietly, his voice growing more confidant as he sang.

" _I was terrified and would you mind if I_  
_sat next to you and watched you smile?_  
_So many kids but I only see you_  
_And I don't think you notice me._  
_Well I've seen your boyfriend and I don't think he treats you right._  
_But that's none of my business is it?_

_I'm not the way you think I am, no  
I'm not the way you think I am, no_ "

Patrick stopped singing and smiled sheepishly, hiding behind his guitar a little.

Pete was speechless for a second.

"That was amazing!" he finally exclaimed. Patrick blushed.

"Thank you," he said laughing nervously. "These were perfect. Your lyrics, I mean. I could always come up with melodies, but your words tied them together."

"You made them mean something," Pete murmured. A feeling of tranquility washed over him, mixed with a strange excitement. He started laughing, overcome with emotion. "You made them mean something, they're no longer words floating in my head, they have meaning, thank you thank you!" He grinned so hard his face hurt and he ran over to Patrick and squeezed him into a hug. Patrick laughed a little and leaned into the hug.

[•]

Patrick talked to Pete for what seemed like forever. The two of them had so much in common, but even as they discussed different bands they liked, Patrick's mind lingered on the fact that he was the only one who could see and touch Pete. The idea of that made his skin crawl with nerves, but his heart beat with excitement.

Suddenly, Patrick's alarm started beeping, causing both boys to jump.

Patrick sighed. Yet another day of school. He looked at Pete, who's face was tight.

"What're you gonna do?" Patrick asked.

"I don't know. I could hang around town I guess. Write more lyrics, float into people's houses, wander around." He shrugged. Patrick felt awful for him.

"You could come to school with me," Patrick offered. "But I wouldn't be able to interact with you. No need to give the jerks another reason to bully me."

Pete scowled when Patrick mentioned the bullies. "Maybe I'll stop by," he said.

[•]

Patrick slammed his locker shut before lunch, just wanting to get through the day and go home and see Pete. The whole school was mourning his death, and there were so many tears and speeches and more tears, and it was wearing him down.

He turned around and found himself face to face with Gary, one of the most popular kids at school, and the one who seemed to like torturing Patrick the most. Patrick sighed, holding back the urge to cry. Of all days, why today?

"Hey, Patty, what's that you got there?" He pointed to Patrick's books in his hand.

"Books. It's no surprise you didn't recognize them. When was the last time you touched one?" Patrick lashed.

Gary scowled. "Shut the fuck up, fag," he snapped. "I didn't say you could speak."

"Sorry, I didn't realize I needed permission. Would you mind moving? You're in my way," Patrick gazed pointedly at him and his little gang of followers who were always walking behind him.

Gary didn't respond, he just shoved Patrick against the lockers, banging his head against a lock.

Ow, he though, but tried not to show any emotion.

"You think you're so funny? I could kick your fucking faggot ass any day."

Patrick didn't doubt him. Although good with insults, he would be severely outmatched in a fight.

Gary wasn't done talking. He started speaking to his friends, but didn't take his eyes or arm off Patrick, who was still flushed against the lockers. "Finally, that good for nothing fag Wentz is gone. Next is little Patty here, and -"

Patrick didn't allow him to finish. "Fuck you!" he yelled, swinging an arm around and punching Gary in the jaw. He released the smaller boy in surprise, jaw starting to swell. Gary's eyes filled with rage. Patrick swallowed; he was dead meat. But no one, _no one_ , insulted Pete in front of Patrick.

Gary swung a meaty arm and struck Patrick in the stomach. He doubled over, choking and gasping for breath. Gary started to swing another arm, but out of no where, a small rock, half the size of a closed fist, whipped by and struck him in the shoulder. He turned to the direction of the rock in shock, and Patrick did too.

He gasped when he saw Pete there, fury radiating off him. A glower was glued to his face, and his arm was cocked back with another rock in it.

Gary was looking straight through Pete in confusion and anger. "What the fuck was that?" he yelled. One of his friends shrugged. More annoyed than angry now, he turned his attention back to Patrick. Another rock struck his face. Pete was coming closer. He only had one rock left. Patrick couldn't help but smile as Pete threw the last one.

Unfortunately, Gary saw his smile. His face twisted in anger, and he threw another punch at Patrick's stomach, and then his nose. Patrick dodged the second one, and it struck his cheek instead. Suddenly, Pete was in between Patrick and Gary, screaming "FUCK YOU!" and "GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM PATRICK!" His hands were curled into fists, and he was beating Gary up, but his hands just went through him. Gary didn't even blink, and went for Patrick's jaw.

As soon as he came in contact with it, one of the teachers walked into the hallway.

"What's going on?" he yelled. Patrick didn't move, hands shielding his face. His hat lay forgotten on the ground. Pete, once he realized Gary had stopped hitting Patrick, stopped trying to punch him back and instead rushed to Patrick's side. Gary froze at the teacher's voice and glowered.

"This isn't over," he whispered to Patrick.

The teacher led him away, and told Patrick to see the nurse.

"Patrick oh my god are you ok?" Pete asked. Patrick noticed that his voice was shaking, and he sounded close to tears.

"I'm fine," Patrick muttered under his breath. "Hasn't been this bad in a while, but it's been worse."

Pete looked sick. Patrick sighed. "I'll be ok. I'm gonna go to the nurse's office, maybe I can skip the rest of the day and go home."

[•]

Patrick insisted that Pete should wait for him at home, and he complied. He sat in Patrick's desk chair, spinning around in circles. He was boiling with rage, the image of Patrick doubling over after each blow from the bigger kid playing in his mind. He had felt so useless when he could do nothing to save the younger boy, his fists going right through the bully's face and stomach, and his fists going right through Pete.

Pete heard the front door open, and raced out of Patrick's room to see who it was. Sure enough, it was him, his hat back on his blond hair. Pete raced downstairs, and barreled into him with a hug. Patrick gasped in surprise and pain. Pete jumped back.

"Sorry! Sorry, oh god are you ok I forgot you were hurt," Pete stammered.

Patrick smiled, but it looked more like a grimace, with the bruises turning purple on his face. "No it's ok, I'm fine. It's not as bad as it looks."

"I was just so worried, I'm so glad you're ok," Pete said in a rush. "I'm gonna fucking kill that kid."

Before Patrick could reply, Pete embraced him again, more gently this time.

Patrick sighed and leaned into the hug. "Thank you. For being there."

"I couldn't do anything though. He was hitting you and all I could think was 'I have to make it stop' and I couldn't I'm so sorry," Pete murmured.

His words warmed Patrick's heart, and he squeezed him tighter. "The fact that you were there was enough."

"I have to say, you were holding yourself up pretty well before I joined. Who knew you could throw insults like that," Pete said smiling into Patrick's neck. He didn't say how he felt both sick and awed when Patrick refused to lift a hand against the bully until Pete's name was mentioned.

Patrick laughed. "Practice makes perfect." The joke was supposed to be light, but it weighed Pete's heart down like a brick. No one should have to be forced to deal with that bullshit.

The hug lasted longer than any hug between two people who barely knew each other should be, but Pete wasn't willing to let go just yet. And Patrick didn't seem to be complaining.

[•]

"Fuck it. I'm exhausted," Patrick groaned at around 9 P.M. He had been doing his homework, talking to Pete throughout it. They had started by talking about the bully, Gary, and somehow they ended up talking about Pete's cat. Patrick was a relatively fast worker, but the amount of stuff that he had piled up today was huge.

"I never had this much homework in my sophomore year," Pete admitted. "I guess I was taking easier classes. Or maybe the teacher's decided it wasn't enough."

"The funny thing is I don't even care about any of it. I don't like math, don't care about English or history, and I can't imagine myself doing something that relates to any science in the future. I only care about music."

"Then music is your calling," Pete stated with finality.

"Yeah but why am I doing all these classes for my 'future'? I should be focusing on music. Anyway, do you know how hard it is to be successful in music?" Patrick looked at him hopelessly. "The future scares the shit out of me."

Pete impulsively grabbed his hand in both of his. Patrick flushed a little.

"Trust me, it will be ok. Everyone has a purpose on this earth, and if you think yours is music then you go after music. Yeah, it'll be hard, but who said things were ever easy for anyone? Doctors, engineers, lawyers, they all have to work to get in a good place. It won't be any different for you."

Patrick laughed a little. "Since when were you so wise?" he asked teasingly.

"Fuck off," Pete said, pulling his hands back. But he was smiling.

"I'm joking. A little. Thank you." Patrick was sincere.

"Always."

"Seriously though, I'm going to bed. I don't give two shits about the trading empires of the fifteenth century." He rolled away from his desk. "I'm gonna go get ready for bed."

[•]

Pete watched Patrick sleep. It wasn't as creepy as it would sound to anyone else, mostly he listened to the other boy breathe as he collected his thoughts. Not to mention, it had a wonderful calming effect on him.

He had known Patrick for a little over 24 hours, but he felt a deeper bond with him that he only had with his closer friends. The connections to his friends took years to develop, however. He had never felt this comfortable with anyone in such a short amount of time. Sure, he had spent almost every waking hour with him, but even then. It was a strange feeling, but not a bad one.

Pete sighed and stood up from the chair he was sitting on. He felt the sudden urge to be close to Patrick, and gently lay down next to him on the bed. As if sensing his nearness, Patrick shifted in his sleep, snuggling closer to Pete. Pete stroked his soft hair and watched him.

He really was beautiful. Pete had had his fair share of boyfriends and girlfriends, but none came close to being as beautiful as Patrick. Or as perfect in personality. They seemed to click, as if they were meant to find each other and know each other.

Patrick looked so calm in his sleep, no worry or pain on his face. For some reason, Pete bent his head a little and softly kissed the top of his head. He didn't move, and Pete sighed, losing himself to his thoughts.

[•]

A month passed in a similar fashion. Patrick didn't have many friends, and usually ended up staying home with Pete. The two of them grew extremely close during the time. They either wrote music or talked or played games or sometimes went on walks. One time, they even went to the movies together. It was even better because Pete didn't need to buy a ticket.

With the good times came the bad. Pete had more mental breakdowns like the first, where he could do nothing but cry, and Patrick could do nothing but hold him. There were some days where Patrick came home from school near tears, or with a new bruise on his face, and he would avoid Pete and lock himself in the bathroom, where Pete could hear his shuddering sobs. Pete always begged Patrick to let him in, but didn't push it when he refused. He knew the younger boy was not as open about these things as he was, and he hated that he could never do anything for him.

Pete also started to feel things that weren't just friendship towards Patrick. He started to notice how his hands moved when he played the guitar, or how his lips shaped his words into beautiful music, or the way his eyes changed color depending on his clothes, or how the tone of his voice changed slightly with his mood, or how his fluffy hair spread out underneath his hat. He always wore a hat. Pete felt blessed to be one of the few people who saw him without one.

Pete had never had these feelings for anyone before, and didn't know what they meant. He didn't know if he even wanted to know.

Today was no different than any other day. It was Thursday, Pete was laying in Patrick's bed, waiting for him to come home. He had gone out and walked around, sneaking into movie theaters, and watching people in a coffee shop. Boredom wasn't a problem to him, even though he always suffered from it when he was alive. But now, watching people go about their everyday lives was enough to keep him occupied for hours. Pete was thankful for this new development. He didn't think ghosts could die, but if they could, he would've died of boredom long ago if he still felt it.

The familiar jingle of keys in the front door was unmistakable. Pete leapt out of bed, smiling. Patrick was home! He had thought up some new lyrics that day, and was excited to share them with him. He started downstairs as Patrick let himself into the house. The second Pete saw his face, he froze, and knew it was another bad day. A tear was already dripping down Patrick's face, and a bloody nose accompanied a split lip.

"Fuck, Patrick -" Pete said, taking the younger boy into his arms. He didn't protest, but he didn't allow himself to cry either. He took shuddering breathes into Pete's shoulder.

Neither of them moved for a minute, and then Patrick stepped away. His face was already closed off.

"Patrick, please, don't shut yourself in the bathroom again. Please, talk to me," Pete begged. Patrick shook his head slightly, and headed upstairs. He sped into the bathroom, dropping his backpack in the floor outside, and locked the door shut. Pete sighed. He heard running water and, when the water turned off, quiet sobs. His heart ached for the younger boy.

"Patrick," he tried again. "Please. Let me in. Talk to me. I want to know what's going on in your life, I want to be there for you." Of course Pete could've just walked through the wall, but he didn't want to lose the trust of the only person he could interact with.

"Fuck off, Pete," Patrick said, voice shaky.

Pete sighed again, and went back to Patrick's room. What was he doing wrong? Was he doing anything wrong? What was someone supposed to do in that situation?

Patrick came out of the bathroom in a little over half an hour, bag slung over one shoulder. Pete immediately sat up and opened his arms for an embrace. Patrick glanced at him, and looked away, which felt like a knife in Pete's chest.

"Patrick? What's wrong?" Patrick had never refused a hug before, especially after a day like this.

"Nothing." His voice was tight.

"Doesn't seem like nothing."

"Leave me alone, Pete." He pulled a textbook out of his bag, and some paper.

"If I did something then tell me, please," Pete insisted. "And if it's something else, you know I'm always here to listen."

"It's nothing, alright?" Patrick said through gritted teeth.

Pete looked at him hard. Something was wrong. They had never fought before. Pete was sure he didn't do anything, but he was careless, it was possible.

After a couple minutes, Patrick slammed down his pencil and sighed. "Don't you want to go somewhere?" he asked angrily, not turning around to face him. "You're always hanging around here. Aren't there other places you'd rather be?"

"Not really," Pete said honestly, surprised at the sudden anger. Patrick never minded before. "I like it here. I can think peacefully."

"Then can you stop staring at me? I can't work."

"Sorry."

Ten minutes passed, before Patrick stopped working again. "I can't do this right now, I need fresh air." He got up.

Pete stood up hastily. "I'll go with you," he offered.

Patrick shook his head. "No. I want to go alone."

He made a move to walk out the door, but Pete grabbed his wrist. "Patrick, what is going on? If I did something, please tell me!"

Patrick refused to meet his eye. "I said its nothing! Let me go."

"Not until you tell me why you're avoiding me suddenly. I'm serious, tell me what I did, I can take it."

Patrick laughed a little, and Pete was shocked to see his eyes shining with tears when he finally looked at him.

"Is it not obvious?" he asked, almost helplessly. A tear fell down his cheek. Pete instinctively reached up and swiped it away with his thumb.

"What's obvious? What the hell?" Pete was thoroughly confused now, and was starting to get a little mad.

Patrick shoot his head. "Let go of me Pete." His voice was hard.

"Not until you explain what the fuck is going on."

"Maybe I don't want to fucking explain! Just because you're always open about everything in your life doesn't mean I have to be," he said, volume increasing with each word. Pete let go of his wrist, stepping back.

"I don't know what the fuck is going on, but if it has to do with me I think I have the right to know. What the fuck did I do? Why are you avoiding me Patrick?"

Patrick suddenly looked very small and very tired. He looked up at Pete hopelessly, and Pete resisted the urge to wrap his arms around him protectively.

"It's because I fucking love you, Pete," Patrick said quietly, helpless tears dripping from his eyes. "And that scares the fucking crap out of me." With that, he raced out of the room and slammed the door behind him, leaving Pete speechless.

[•]

Patrick ran out of his house, angry tears splashing down his cheeks and onto his clothes. That day had been particularly shitty, Gary and his friends had been particularly awful, and they had thrown more insults at him and Pete. He could always ignore the ones about him, but when they jabbed at Pete, he always lost it. Stupid as they were, it didn't take them very long to learn that insults against his dead friend were what got him riled up. Today has been especially bad, and resulted in them beating him up after school. On his way home, he had thought _why, of all people, do I have to be in love with a ghost?_ , which stopped him dead in his tracks. He always knew he had a crush on Pete, but love? Not to mention, Pete was fucking dead. An actual ghost. That no one could even see.

He hated crying, hated feeling weak. He never let Pete watch him cry. He didn't want to show his weakness.

The realization of his feelings for Pete had scared the shit out of him. He had no reason to get mad at Pete, but all his bottled up emotion exploded inside him at once, and the next thing he knew, he was stomping out of his house, leaving a speechless Pete behind.

[•]

Pete stood shocked for a full five minutes. Then, he collapsed on Patrick's bed. How could he have been so stupid? How did he miss all the signals? The way Patrick always blushed when he touched him, or froze for a second whenever he hugged him.

After a few minutes, he had the sudden urge to write more lyrics. He got up, and went over to Patrick's desk. A single tear dropped onto his paper as he poured his thoughts out.

[•]

Pete wasn't home when Patrick came back. He let out a shaky breath, not knowing if he was relieved or disappointed. He collapsed only his bed, exhaustion filling him suddenly, and fell asleep.

[•]

Pete wandered around for hours, not a destination in mind. He ended up at some bar, and wished he was still able to consume drinks. It would be really good to forget everything for a little bit.

He sat on one of the stools and put his head down on the table with a loud sigh. He didn't know what to think or feel. Patrick's words floated in his mind.

_I fucking love you, Pete._

The words stirred something inside Pete, but he didn't know what. Whatever it was, it was powerful, and made his stomach twist. "Fuck," he groaned.

"You don't seem like you're doing to well," a soft voice said. He jerked his head up and looked towards the voice. It was a petite girl with straight red hair tied in a knot behind her head. Pretty green eyes sparkled in amusement. She looked like she was in her mid twenties.

"You can hear me?" he asked in disbelief.

"Yeah. I know what you are." She took her hand and slapped the bar in front of him. Her hand went right through. Pete stared.

"You're like me!" he exclaimed, hope rising in his chest.

"That I am," she said with a smile. "I'm Lily."

"Pete. It is really nice to meet you, Lily."

"So tell me what's happening with you. See if I can help."

"Ok," Pete said. He told her about dying and waking up alone except for Patrick. "He's the most beautiful person I've ever laid eyes on," he said softly. He started to ramble while describing him to her, and she had to cut him off, smiling. He apologized hastily and continues to describe their argument, and the way Patrick had said he loved him. Lily beamed at this. Pete tried to explain what he felt, but couldn't really find the words. Finally he gave up. "Help," he concluded pathetically.

She couldn't stop smiling. He wondered what was so funny.

"This is perfect, it's perfect! I'm so happy for you!" she exclaimed.

"What," Pete said, not comprehending.

"Listen. Everyone has a soulmate. And everyone finds their soulmate at some point in their life. If someone's life is cut short before they reach that point, it wasn't time for them to go yet. So they stay. A natural force brings them together with their other half, and once they find them, well, I don't know what happens. I'm still looking for my girl." She smiled sadly. Pete gave her a sympathetic look, but his mind was still in shock. "It's only been a few months though, I haven't lost hope," she continued with a shrug. "But you got lucky, your boy already knew you and lived near you. So yeah. You and Patrick are supposed to be together, that's why only he could see and touch you, and that's why you were drawn to him. You guys are soulmates. Oh, and those feelings you were describing? It's called love."

[•]

Patrick ditched last period and came home early on Friday. He wasn't willing to deal with Gary today, and didn't really care about the phone call that would come home about his absence. He had spent most of the day trying not to break down. Pete hadn't come back, and Patrick was terrified he had ruined it all.

He walked up to his room, and dropped his bag on the ground, feeling exhausted suddenly. A scrap of paper on his desk caught his eye.

It was lyrics from Pete. It had no note or signature; it was just like every other piece of paper that he wrote lyrics on. A little hope flared in Patrick's chest. Did that mean he was planning on coming back?

Sighing, Patrick looked at the words on the piece of paper. Tears blurred his eyes a little bit.

Quietly, he picked up his guitar.

[•]

Pete walked into Patrick's house, up his stairs, and down the hall towards Patrick's room. His mind was full of racing thoughts, moving too fact to grasp any of them, but one word stood out against the rest.

Soulmates.

He had thanked Lily over and over, hugged her, and wished her luck on finding her girl. He told her he hoped they would meet again one day, in the future, and he meant it. He would've given her his phone number, but he had lost his when he died and she didn't have one either.

Soulmates.

A voice cut through the noise in his head, Patrick's voice. He was singing softly, and Pete jolted as he recognized the words he had written the day before, combined with some from the past, twisted together into a beautiful melody.

" _Why can you read me like no one else?_  
_I hide behind these words_  
_But I'm coming out_  
 _I wish I kept them behind my tongue_  
_I hide behind these words  
But I'm coming out."_

Pete silently stepped into the room. Patrick was sitting on his bed, eyes closed. His strawberry blond hair reflected the light of the sun, making it turn into molten gold. His cheeks were slightly red from both the heat and the intensity of his singing. He was beautiful. Pete saw a quick tear drop down his face, but Patrick didn't move to wipe it away.

" _Put your hand between_  
_An aching head and an aching world_  
_We'll make them so jealous  
We'll make them hate us_

_An aching head and an aching world_  
_We'll make them so jealous,  
We'll make them so jealous._ "

He stopped. Pete felt hot tears on his own face now. He made a small noise in the back of his throat. Patrick turned in surprise, and averted his eyes when he saw Pete.

Soulmates.

"That was beautiful," Pete choked out.

"Who were they for?" Patrick asked, not meeting his eye. "The lyrics. You wrote them for someone, didn't you?" His words sounded rehearsed.

Pete was shocked for a second, before letting out a strangled laugh. "You really are oblivious, aren't you?" he asked.

Patrick swallowed and turned around. "Right. That's just me. Oblivious little Patrick." His voice was hard.

"No! No I didn't mean it like that," Pete scrambled, realizing he had absolutely no right to call Patrick oblivious since he himself hadn't realized Patrick had loved him too.

"Then what did you mean?" Patrick sounded a little angry. "What the fuck did you mean?" His voice broke at the end, and Pete could feel, not just hear, the pain bubbling out of his words.

Soulmates.

Pete didn't say anything. He walked over to the younger boy, grabbed his face in both hands, and kissed him.

Patrick froze, then melted in his arms.

"They were for you," he whispered against the kiss. "We're soulmates."

Suddenly, Pete felt like his atmosphere cracked. He jolted back suddenly, pain filling his chest. He gasped and fell to his knees, clutching at his heart.

"Pete!" Patrick yelled, dropping to the floor and putting his arms on his shoulders. "Pete what's happening?!"

Pete looked up at Patrick helplessly, opening his mouth to speak, but a low moan came out instead. Intense ringing filled his ears, and he couldn't hear what Patrick said next. He felt like the world was splitting down the middle, like his own body was splitting down the middle. The pain in his chest intensified, until he couldn't breathe.

Pete could see Patrick was screaming at him, tears rolling down his cheeks, but he couldn't hear anything over the ringing in his ears. Is this what death felt like? Is this why he became a ghost? To struggle to find his soulmate only to lose what was left of his life once he did? That was too cruel.

Then suddenly, the pain stopped as quickly as it had come. Patrick was sobbing on his knees next to him, arms around Pete. Pete gasped for breath.

"Patrick!" he moaned. The younger boy jumped up and gasped, relief coloring his face when he saw that Pete was still ok.

"Oh my god, what the fuck happened never again Pete please." Meaningless words flew out of his mouth and he simply hugged the older boy tight, and planted a kiss on his mouth. Pete melted into it, relief seeping through his body until he felt weak, and ended up laying on the floor with Patrick on top of him, kissing him softly.

"I thought," he said in between kisses. "I was going to die." He gasped as Patrick nibbled his lower lip.

"Not on my watch," Patrick said defiantly, but his voice was shaky. "That scared me, Pete."

"Me too."

[•]

The two of them ended up laying on the floor together, Patrick's head on Pete's chest, and Pete stroking his hair. Patrick noticed something then.

"Pete -" he paused, concentrating and making sure he was right. "Your heartbeat is fast. Like, faster than it used to be. It's normal."

Pete made an intrigued noise. "You're right, actually," he said after a second.

"Patrick, I'm home!" a voice called from downstairs. Patrick scrambled off of Pete and sat up on the floor. It was his mom.

"She's home early," he said with a shrug. Pete nodded and closed his eyes. He was exhausted for the first time since he died.

They heard footsteps come up the stairs, and Patrick sat at his desk, pretending to be studying. Pete got up and sat on his bed.

Patrick's mom poked her head in the room. She met Pete's eye, and a look of surprise passed over her face. Pete drew his eyebrows together in confusion.

"Patrick you didn't tell me you were having a friend over," she said sternly.

Patrick turned to her fast enough to make his neck snap. Almost. "What?" he asked, shocked.

"Or did you?" she asked.

"I, um, yeah, I did," he stuttered out. "You must've forgotten."

"Oh ok. I don't think I've ever met you before." She was addressing Pete.

"I, yeah, no you haven't." Pete fluidly jumped off the bed and reached out to shake her hand. "I'm Pete. Patrick's friend from school. I figured I'd come over and write some music with him, we work really well together." He flashed her a charming smile.

She grinned back. "That's amazing! Patrick's always complaining he doesn't have lyrics for his songs. I'm so glad to see him inviting friends over! I'll be downstairs if you need anything. Have fun!"

She quickly left the room.

As soon as she was gone, Pete and Patrick looked towards each other.

Pete was first to speak. "What the fuck."

Patrick just nodded in agreement.

"What does this mean Patrick? Why can people see me? Why is my heartbeat back to normal?"

A thought started to form in Patrick's mind. "Walk through the wall," he said.

Pete seemed to get the gist of what Patrick was suggesting. He swallowed and walked towards the wall. He bumped his head into it, and jumped back, swearing lightly. Patrick was a little pale. "Is it possible? How is it possible?"

"I don't know," Pete said, examining his hands, slowly turning them over. They were no different than before. But was it possible? Lily had said she didn't know what happened after a ghost's soulmate was found. Was it possible? Was it? Was it possible that he was living again?

[•]

Patrick had insisted Pete go back to his own home, just to check. Just in case. Pete stood in front of his front door, hands shaking as he retrieved the spare key from behind a loose brick in the front of his house. He unlocked the door and silently stepped in.

"Mom? Dad? I'm home!" he called cautiously.

There was no reply. Pete's heart started to sink.

And then "Pete! Where have you been? I was so worried!" His mom walked into sight, hands on her hips. Pete would have started crying right then and there. Somehow something changed the universe. It was as if he never died, but everything that happened when he did was still part of his past. It was more than he could ever have hoped, and it seemed too good to be true.

"I'm sorry, my phone died." This wasn't true, he had no idea where his phone was. "I had to stay late to finish a project with my group for English. I thought I told you about it already?" He hoped she wouldn't notice that he didn't have his backpack either.

"It's possible. Oh, I was so worried." She walked over and hugged him. He leaned into it, and realized how much he had missed her.

"I love you, mom," he whispered.

If she was surprised at the sudden emotion, she didn't show it. "I love you too, baby," she said softly.

[•]

School the next day seemed surreal. No one seemed to know about Pete ever dying, and the only thing that made them look twice in his direction was the fact that he was attached to Patrick whenever they weren't in class. Rumors spread quickly, and it wasn't long before most of the school knew about their relationship. Not that Patrick cared.

After school, Gary and his crew managed to corner him at his locker, before Pete met up with him.

"Got yourself a little boy toy?" he taunted.

Patrick snorted. "Are you jealous?"

Gary scowled. "Don't mess with me, fag," he hissed.

"Go fuck yourself, Gary," Pete called, appearing out of no where. "Leave Patrick alone."

Gary scowled, but backed away. "You both are fucking disgusting," he called behind him.

Patrick smiled and leaned up to kiss Pete.

"I love you," he said.

"Love you more," Pete whispered in his ear, biting his earlobe and sending a shiver down his body. "Soulmate."

Pete's lips captured Patrick's smile in his own.

[•]

" _Oh, oh, oh-oh_  
_Oh, oh, oh-oh_  
_Oh, oh, oh-oh  
Oh, oh, oh-oh_

_Something make my chest stir_  
_Something make my head blur_  
 _I'm not ready for a handshake with death, no_  
 _I'm just such a happy mess, whoa_ "

Patrick couldn't keep the smile off his face as he sang. He glanced at Pete, who was happily playing at his bass guitar to Patrick's song.

_"The drums are four on the floor  
She's back to the bathroom for one more_

_I'm the invisible man  
Who can't stop staring at the mirror, at the mirror_

_I want to make you as lonely as me_  
_So you can get, get addicted to this,  
You can get, get addicted to this now_ "

The two of them had never played together before, and the feeling made flowers bloom in Patrick's chest. Pete was pretty good at bass, and his notes fit perfectly with the song Patrick had been developing.

" _Oh, oh, oh-oh_  
_Oh, oh, oh-oh_  
_Oh, oh, oh-oh  
Oh, oh, oh-oh_

_It's three drinks too late to talk to anyone but myself  
It's a three-and-two pitch to walk to anywhere else, no_

_The drums are four on the floor  
She's back to the bathroom for one more_ "

Sure, they had written songs before, but Patrick though this was the best one yet. He looked at Pete again, who met his eye and mouthed "I love you" to him. He just smiled harder.

As long as Pete was by his side, he felt like he could take on the world.

" _I'm the invisible man  
Who can't stop staring at the mirror, at the mirror_

_I want to make you as lonely as me_  
_So you can get, get addicted to this,  
You can get, get addicted to this now_

_Oh, oh, oh-oh_  
_Oh, oh, oh-oh_  
 _Oh, oh, oh-oh_  
 _Oh, oh, oh-oh_ "

**Author's Note:**

> yay cute fluffy ending, I hoped you liked it :)


End file.
